


God, How Things Change

by ahab2692



Series: Blood in the Water, Fire in the Sky: A Love Story [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After killing Peter Hale, Derek and Stiles have to deal with the aftermath: Scott doesn't want to forgive Derek for taking away his chance for the cure, Jackson struggles with adjusting to his newfound powers, and Lydia remains in a coma.</p>
<p>Derek has his own demons to wrestle, and the more time he spends with Stiles, the less sure he is that he'll be able to control himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God, How Things Change

He hears Scott’s shout of dismay, but the rage yells louder. It cries vengeance, and so he unsheathes his claw, bringing it down across his uncle’s throat, splattering crimson droplets all along the forest floor.

It’s about as satisfying as such things can be; which is to say, not especially so. No act of retribution can bring back everything this man stole from him or return a sense of normalcy to the colossal fuck-up that is his life. All he can hope for is some measure of peace in the killing of the monster responsible for his pain.

He feels, more than hears, Scott’s sharp intake of breath as the crushing weight of reality slaps him in the face, and Derek’s conscience allows him a moment for regret. He knows, intellectually, that he should have let the boy do the deed, should have given him a chance at a life free from this mess, free from the fear and hatred and danger and suffering that inescapably accompany the burden of these...powers; if that’s the right word for what they have. But something deeper and more primal pulled at his heartstrings, giving him that extra push over the edge into oblivion.

He’s been thoughtful. He’s gone out of his way to avoid causing harm to his community. Even if one were to disregard the trauma of his upbringing, one would have to admit that he’s made extraordinary efforts to be selfless. Rough exterior aside, he’s tried to keep to himself, tried to keep the beast contained within.

So he can’t help but feel a little as though he deserves this one thing. Why should Scott get to bail out? There are no free passes in this life. You’re in the game, and you play until you die. 

No one ever said any of this was supposed to be fair.

So he does it himself, and the brief fizzle of satisfaction he feels as the light leaves Peter’s eyes is enough to make it worthwhile. 

As worthwhile as such things can be.

He turns to face the lot, eyes burning red in his skull, breathing ragged, shoulders heaving. “I’m the Alpha now,” he proclaims out into the night.

And it’s true. He can feel the change, could feel it almost instantaneously as he slit Peter’s throat.

The night air is cold and the darkness presses in from all angles, and Derek allows his gaze to drift past the disbelieving faces in the woodland clearing. He looks off into the mist of the forest, trying to spot out what the future has in store.

It’s all very unclear.

It feels like the end of something.

***

Derek slices the Alpha’s throat, and when Stiles sees the spray of blood and the redness fading in the creature’s eyes, he feels a twinge of sick relief, even as he hears Scott cry out in anguish.

He’s never been the type to rejoice in death, even in cases of those who deserve it, but for Peter Hale, he’ll make an exception. At the moment, he registers that feeling inside him, acknowledges its presence, and chalks it up to happiness in achieving justice for Lydia. It’s not until later, standing by her side with Scott in the small hospital room, that he realizes that isn’t true.

It’s strange, eyes cast down upon her face now, mind alive with memories of the night’s events, that he should suddenly arrive at the place he’s been half-praying to reach for what must be years; he no longer has any feelings for her. At least not sexually. He probes down deep into the nature of his emotions at this moment, and finds that he cannot dredge up anything more than concern and worry. It’s friendly, brotherly. He’s not sure where the romance and lust, so tangible and palpable mere hours ago, have disappeared to. It’s as though they’ve evaporated.

He should question that more, particularly in light of all the supernatural insanity that has somehow taken ahold of his life. But he’s a little more distracted by the underlying implications of his sudden disinterest.

If his happiness back in the forest was not for Lydia, then it could only have been for Derek. The warmth he felt in his chest was for whatever temporary solace Derek found in his uncle’s death. And _that_ sends Stiles’ mind down a path he’s not ready to face.

***

Derek can’t say that it “isn’t supposed to be this way,” because he’s long since accepted that there _isn’t_ any way things are supposed to be. There never was. There’s only the way things are. That, and what people choose to do with the role fate has cast them in.

Nevertheless, he feels a deep unease with the aftermath of that fateful night.

Jackson had come to him later, had barged into the old house, frightened and shaken, but adamant and determined about his intentions. He’d said Derek owed him, that he’d paid his dues and wanted what he’d asked for. And Derek had given it to him. Maybe because he hadn’t allowed Scott the same measure of control over his own fate, and thought that perhaps giving Jackson that courtesy would, in some way, make up for the betrayal. Or maybe because he was simply interested to see how the kid would handle the powers he so desperately craved. Or maybe just for the sake of expanding his own pack.

Regardless, Jackson’s turned, and it’s been a fucking disaster so far.

Derek gets, _truly_ gets, that it takes time to adjust to the heightened sense of awareness of being a werewolf. But Jackson is a train wreck, jumpy at every sound, dementedly eager at every opportunity to test his newfound abilities, and wolfing out at the slightest irritation.

“You need to calm the fuck down,” Derek tells him through gritted teeth, cornering him alone in the school locker room after lacrosse practice. “Six times out there you nearly transformed. Six times, Jackson. Even Scott had better self-control than this.”

Jackson’s eyes flash bright and furious at being compared negatively to Scott, and Derek can smell the anger rolling off him in thick, noxious waves.

“But I didn’t,” Jackson snarls, bristling. “I stopped myself every time. No one saw anything, and -”

“But they will,” Derek interjects impatiently. “Have you completely forgotten everything that’s happened?” He leans in closer, and Jackson at least has the decency to back down a bit, eyes returning to normal. “Our kind,” Derek says lowly, glancing around briefly to make sure they’re really alone, “doesn’t get lucky very often. Almost never. We already have too many people in this town who know about us. So getting worked up and transforming during fucking high school lacrosse practice isn’t going to do us any favors. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Jackson mutters sulkily, eyes downcast. “I’ll be more careful.”

He won’t. He can’t, and they both know it. He’s too unstable, too reckless. 

Too arrogant.

So _that_ was a mistake, Derek thinks wearily.

It’s not his last, or his worst.

He should have made amends with Scott right away, should have reached out for comfort, should have offered an explanation for his actions. But instead, he foolishly let his pride get the better of him, assuming Scott would get over himself and eventually submit, accepting Derek as his Alpha.

He hasn’t, and he won’t.

Two weeks after killing Peter, Derek gives up trying to call Scott on his cell and shows up at his house uninvited.

“Get out,” Scott says coldly, and Derek’s actually taken aback by how harsh he sounds. “We have nothing to discuss.”

Derek shakes his head. “Well, we both know that’s not true. We have plenty to discuss.”

“Fine. I’ll rephrase: Get out, we’re not going to discuss it.”

“You’re pack,” Derek says simply, and Scott snorts derisively, as if that’s the most idiotic thing he’s ever heard. “Like it or not, we’re a team. We’re blood, as far as I’m concerned, and we need to get past whatever issues we have.”

Scott just stares at him incredulously. “We? _We?_ Whatever issues _we_ have? Are you fucking serious, dude? If there’s something _I’ve_ done that you have an issue with, please enlighten me. Because, to be honest, I can’t think of anything.” Derek doesn’t have anything to say to that, so Scott continues. “I helped save your life. I helped take down the Alpha. I’ve done pretty much everything I was supposed to do. You’re the one who fucked me over. You’re the one who betrayed me. And for what?” 

And that, right there, that’s where Derek knows he’s lost this argument. Because he doesn’t have an adequate rebuttal to that.

It probably shows on his face, too, because Scott’s eyes flash with a mixture of triumph and anger. “For what?” he repeats, more bitter than heated this time. “So you could have the thrill of revenge for yourself? You really _had_ to be the one to do it? Or was it the power?” He steps closer, wolf starting to show, and Derek feels a growl rising in his chest at the threat. Scott stops, doesn’t move closer, but holds his ground. “Was that it, Derek? The lure of being Alpha was just too tempting? You decided it was better for you to play bossman rather than give me a shot at getting rid of this damn curse?”

“Not everyone thinks like you, Scott,” Derek snaps, temper flaring up. “Not all of look at it like a curse. Jackson -”

“I’m not Jackson!” Scott yells, fists clenching at his sides, chest rising and falling rapidly. “And I’m not you!” He makes a move like he’s going to punch a hole in the wall, then thinks better of it, raising his hands to his forehead and running his fingers over his scalp. When he looks up again, Derek’s stomach clenches at the expression of betrayal. “Why would you do that, Derek? I mean, I don’t know if I’d say you and I are friends exactly, but...fuck. I thought at the very least, you would be loyal to your allies.”

That hits Derek like a punch to the gut, and he immediately feels the urge to defend himself. “There was never any guarantee it would have worked,” he says uneasily, trying to convince himself as much as Scott. “I’ve never seen anyone cured, and I had no sufficient reason to believe that you killing the Alpha would make you human. It wasn’t a risk worth taking.”

Scott makes an indignant, guttural noise in his throat, but Derek cuts him off. “Think it through, Scott. What if you’d been wrong? What if it hadn’t worked? Then where would you be?” He pauses for dramatic effect, but Scott’s face remains stone cold, unreadable. “You wouldn’t be able to handle that power. You wouldn’t know what to do with it, and as soon as the other packs from the other cities heard about Peter, they would come here and eat you alive. And you wouldn’t be able to stop them.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing at it distractedly. “You know I’m right. And to answer your earlier question, no. No, I wasn’t drawn in by the lure of power. I’m just the most equipped of all of us to handle it. I’m older, and I’m more knowledgable about the shit we’re dealing with, and I have the strength to keep the pack safe. And that’s why I did what I did.”

There’s a long silence, and it stretches uncomfortably, but Derek thinks for a moment that he might have gotten through to Scott.

And then Scott speaks up. 

“It wasn’t your choice to make. It was mine. He’s the one who made me what I am, and I should have had the chance to take my life back. I should have had the chance to face the consequences on my own terms, not yours.” He bites his lip, looking away. “And everything you just said...that’s just an afterthought. Even if you’re right, that sure as hell  wasn’t what was going through your head back in the forest.” He looks at Derek coldly. “You did this for you. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

Derek stands rigid. He jerks his head in a semblance of a nod, mouth a tight line, eyes blazing. “Alright. I won’t.”

Scott nods back, almost imperceptibly. “Okay. Good.”

And as it turns out, Scott was right. They have nothing more to discuss.

So on top of the mess with Jackson, there’s that to deal with as well.

There’s the matter of Lydia, who still hasn’t woken up, and who appears to be healing slowly and naturally. Like a human. Derek will cross that bridge when he gets there.

Sheriff Stilinski seems to have grudgingly arrived at the conclusion that Derek is, in fact, not a murderer, though he still shoots him suspicious glances when they run into one another around town. He’s no fool, and Derek’s sure the two of them will need to have a nice, long chat somewhere down the line.

He hasn’t seen the Argents since that night, and he doesn’t really feel any desire to seek them out. It would be nice if they could all reach some sort of cautious truce, but Derek knows that they’ll never be allies. Like it or not, they’re on opposite sides of the fence. The distrust is too strong to be torn down by the defeat of a common enemy.

But all of that’s manageable, for the time being. All of that is within the perimeters of comfortability. The problem is Derek himself. His thoughts as of late have not been of sound mind.

It’s different, being Alpha. There’s a near-constant sense of hyperawareness that dictates his state of being, and it’s significantly harder to control than being a regular werewolf had been. There’s a map of interconnectivity in his mind, a sort of wiring that keeps him in tune with the pack. He can feel a twinge of irritation whenever Jackson goes off the reservation, or pick up the scent of rage whenever Scott goes out to the woods for a run to vent his frustration. He’s increasingly alert to all of their feelings.

And increasingly, dangerously alert to his own.

It had been okay, or at least workable, before becoming Alpha. He could look at Stiles and recognize the odd feeling in his gut without actually acknowledging its presence or giving in to the temptation to allow that feeling to blossom. He could write it off, more or less, because he had no problem admitting intellectually that the boy was attractive while also keeping a firm lid on his own body’s reaction to that unfortunate reality.

But now...

It’s like everything that had been a mild distraction before has been thrown into sharp focus. Offhand attraction has morphed grotesquely into full-blown desire.

He fights it for as long as he can, avoiding Stiles’ calls, ducking away quickly when they run into each other in town.

But eventually, inevitably, he finds himself lying alone in his shell of a house, fisting his cock as he arches up against the mattress, mind running wild with images of bright doe eyes shuttered by dark lashes and soft pale skin and lean muscle and full red cocksucker lips. And try as he might, he can’t remember ever having an orgasm like that.

And _fuck_ if that doesn’t knock his self-loathing up a few notches.

He thinks he could have been okay with a crush because, hey, it happens. But once he reaches the point where he attends every lacrosse practice, hiding away in the shadows of the bleachers; once he reaches the level of obsession where night after night, he finds himself drawn to slip undetected into Stiles’ bedroom just to watch him sleep...

That’s when he starts to realize that he might have a serious problem.

It’s some consolation, he observes detachedly, that he at least feels incredibly disgusted with himself. Peering in through the window on school mornings as Stiles gets ready for the day, he finds himself hoping for just a flash of bare skin, and feels a twist of revulsion inside at his depravity. He tries pathetically to convince himself that the age gap between them isn’t _that_ wide, but he still feels like some sort of perverted child molester.

He’s an adult now, and there are repercussions to fantasizing about a teenage boy. People in this town are already afraid of him; no reason to add fuel to the fire and turn that fear into hate.

So he stays away, as much as possible. True, he inescapably finds himself drawn to the kid’s window in the twilight hour of a particularly stressful day, but even then, he only watches. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t give in to that urge.

It’s all about compartmentalization, about keeping the haywire strands of his life in order inside his own mind. Compartmentalization; a series of internal boxes for all of those potential dangers. One for Jackson and his careless behavior, one for Scott and his growing resentment, one for the Argents and their ever-present threat, one for Lydia, one for the Sheriff.

One for Stiles. One big, tightly packaged box for Stiles.

Derek hopes it will fade away, as lust tends to do when left to fester.

It doesn’t.

***

Stiles has dreams sometimes.

He’s standing out in the cold and the dark, and he’s shivering in the chill of the night air, breath coming out ragged in soft wisps of vapor, twisting around in the bitter wind as he stands above Lydia. She’s on the ground and covered in blood, and Stiles wants to run, but he feels icy hands gripping his arms from behind and holding him in place. 

“Are you sure you don’t want the bite?” Peter’s voice whispers in his ear, hands tightening menacingly, his breath tickling the hairs on the nape of Stiles’ neck, sending a shiver running down his spine. “It would be good for you, I think. And I think you want it.” - a sharp sniffing sound - “I can smell it on you. I can smell your...want.”

And Stiles wants to fall into dust and disappear, to get as far away from this man as possible. But he’s trapped in that vice-like grip, and he feels frozen to the spot. And he can’t even bring himself to scream when he feels the teeth graze the skin beneath his jaw, drawing forth the juicy redness.

Then he wakes up.

He’s usually of the cheerfully naive mindset that problems left ignored can be ultimately avoided, but for whatever reason, he feels like discussing this with someone. He feels like talking it through and working it out.

So of course, there’s no one to tell.

He goes to Scott first, obviously, but he’s less then helpful, since he’s too busy moping about being stuck as a werewolf. It’s actually starting to get annoying.

“I feel for you, dude. Really,” Stiles says impatiently as they’re holed up in Scott’s bedroom one day after school, finishing their project for history. “But being a whiny bitch isn’t helping anybody, and I’m trying to talk to you about something here, okay?”

“You’re not the one who has to live with this, Stiles,” Scott snaps, dropping his pencil on the desk. “So don’t try and tell me I’m being whiny when you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m done with all of the werewolf stuff, understand? I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We’ll deal with the complications when they come up, but apart from that, I’m going to try and live as normal of a life as I can. If you want to talk about this, go to Jackson.” His lip curls. “Or Derek.”

There’s no way in hell Stiles is going to Jackson for advice. The guy’s a fucking disaster himself, and he probably knows even less about what Stiles is going through than Stiles does. Lydia still hasn’t woken up, and he’s too afraid of the Argents to go to Allison for help, even if she is Scott’s girlfriend.

So it has to be Derek. 

Derek who has been routinely ignoring Stiles’ calls and unsubtly fleeing every time they run into each other at the supermarket or the gas station or something. So he probably won’t be much help.

But Stiles is desperate and lonely and feeling a little bolder than before, so he drives to Derek’s house the next day after school and walks in without knocking.

“Derek!” he calls out carefully. “It’s me. Uh, Stiles. Can we talk?” There’s no answer, and Stiles sighs, squinting up the staircase. “Look, I know you’re here. Your car’s out front, and I heard something thump upstairs when I walked through the door. I promise this won’t take long. And I’ll try not to annoy you.”

There’s a long pause, and Stiles starts to think about leaving, but then there’s a creak on the upstairs floorboards, and Derek’s coming around the corner and descending the stairs resignedly, face blank and impassive.

Stiles stomach does an uncomfortable flip-flop when he sees that Derek’s not wearing a shirt, and he promptly pushes that sensation back down and chokes it away. He’s still been carefully avoiding a close examination of the nature of those feelings, and now is certainly not the time and place to deal with that problem.

“Been working out?” he says weakly, gesturing awkwardly at Derek’s partial nakedness.

Derek just frowns. “What are you here for, Stiles?”

Stiles makes a soft disbelieving noise, resisting the urge to outright scoff in Derek’s face. “Seriously? Uh, maybe to talk about your crazy uncle, and the fact that you’re the Alpha now? Or the fact that you and Scott still won’t speak to each other? Or that Lydia’s still in a coma? Or that you fucking turned Jackson, and now he’s quickly going off the rails? Any of this ringing some bells, dude?”

“What’s to discuss?” Derek replies, face still infuriatingly shuttered off and unreadable. “All of those are true, yes. What’s your point? What is you and me talking about it going to accomplish?”

Stiles sputters, a little put out. “Wh-what...well...Okay. I mean, no. I know there’s nothing I can really _do_ to fix any of that, but...I mean, come on! It still needs fixing.”

Derek is eyeing him studiously, and Stiles shifts a bit under the weight of his gaze. It’s unnerving. 

“That’s not why you’re here,” Derek finally speaks up, assured and confident. “All of that will resolve itself in due time, and you’re smart enough to know that.” He crosses his arms across his chest (and Stiles definitely does _not_ stare at Derek’s chest; at all), eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You smell nervous,” Derek says thoughtfully. “What are you nervous about? Still afraid of me?”

“No!” Stiles blurts out, and Derek raises his eyebrow. “Okay, maybe a little bit. But that’s not it.” He bites his lip, looking at the ground in embarrassment. “Alright, there _is_ one other thing.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even blink. Just waits.

Stiles continues awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Okay. So I’ve been having these dreams, right? About stuff...um. About all the stuff that happened...that night, you know?” He keeps ending his sentences with unsubtle requests for validation, but Derek stays silent. “Anyway, they’ve been kinda freaking me out, and they got me thinking about some things that...I dunno. I just figured maybe you’d be good to talk to. About this.”

Derek actually looks a little surprised, and Stiles counts that as some sort of small triumph. Proud of himself, he’s startled back to the moment when Derek’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “What are they about?”

“Hmm?” Stiles asks dumbly.

Derek rolls his eyes. “The dreams.”

“Oh.” Stiles flushes. “Right, yeah. Well, they’re mostly about your uncle.” Derek’s growl makes Stiles’ words die in his throat and he swallows hard, backing up unconsciously. Derek motions for him to go on. “I just...I don’t really know how to put it exactly. He gave me a really bad vibe.”

“A bad vibe,” Derek repeats incredulously, as if to say _no shit, Sherlock_. 

“Yeah. But I mean, apart from the stuff we already knew. Apart from the murdering and the being a super villain-esque type guy. And whatnot.” Derek’s starting to look impatient, so Stiles hurries on to get to the point. “He tried to give me the bite.”

And _that_ gets Derek’s attention.

“He _what_?!?” Derek snarls, eyes flashing bright red, looming in closer. Stiles flinches, shrinking back, and Derek stops, a brief flash of remorse flickering across his features. “He what?” he repeats, softer, but just as dangerously.

“Offered me the bite,” Stiles says timidly. “Like I said.”

“He offered it to you?” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t need werewolf super senses to pick up on the white hot rage rolling off Derek in waves. “Offered? He didn’t try and force you?” He leans in closer, reaching out and touching Stiles’ shoulder tentatively. “He didn’t hurt you?” he asks cautiously. “Stiles? He didn’t hurt you, right?”

“No. No. Well...” Stiles hesitates, and Derek’s eyes flash brighter. “I mean, he threatened to,” Stiles corrects himself hastily. “And he manhandled me a little bit. But nothing serious.”

“What do you mean ‘manhandled?’ He touched you?” Derek’s teeth are coming out now, sharp and glistening.

Stiles just stands there, petrified and wide-eyed. “I wouldn’t phrase it like _that_ , no. He just sort of roughed me up a bit. Nothing more than what you do.” Derek jerks back slightly, looking startled at first, then somewhat ashamed. Stiles is quick to add, “But it was different than that. I know you wouldn’t actually hurt me. Uh, well. At least not on purpose. Like, I knew that he really would carry out his threats. Whereas you’re just sort of an intimidating kinda guy. You know?”

Derek looks somewhat appeased, if not entirely so. “Okay,” he says slowly, a bit more relaxed, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, bobbing his head. “All I’m saying is, it struck me as a little weird that he didn’t force the bite on me when I already knew that he did that to Scott. It’s probably nothing, but it’s been bugging me.”

Derek turns away, chewing at his lower lip. “Yes. It is strange.” He pauses for a moment, then heads back up the stairs. “We’ll talk more later,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving Stiles standing alone in the foyer, more bewildered than ever.

***

He does his best not to think too much about what Stiles told him. Whatever plans his uncle had in store are irrelevant. He’s dead now, and he can’t hurt anyone ever again. Regardless of what his intentions may or may not have been, dwelling in the nightmares of the past isn’t going to help anybody. Derek’s looking forward.

Except it stays there in his head, gnawing at the back of his brain like a disease. Thinking about all of the things Peter might have wanted to do to Stiles drives him crazy. He feels rage and possessiveness boiling up inside, up until the point where he has to go on a run and kill some rabbits to vent his frustration. 

Things are getting out of hand.

He has dreams, too. 

He can picture it so clearly; how it would all go down. He would be running through the woods until he came across Stiles, alone and vulnerable in the middle of nowhere. He would see those bright doe eyes widen in surprise as Derek pinned him down, lifting his arms above his head with a strong grip to the wrists, holding him in place with a knee in the chest. He would lean down and claim that sweet mouth for his own, tongue darting inside to lick at the moisture and savor the taste. He would hear Stiles’ surprised gasp as he reached down to unbuckle his pants, hips twitching forward in anticipation of the rhythm as his other hand snaked underneath the boy’s shirt to run his fingertips across the smooth expanse of that heated flesh. Stiles would moan as he pushed inside of him, first with one finger, then with two or three, then with his cock, fucking him raw as the sweat coalesced between their slick, naked forms. Fucking him until they both came all over each other and the roughhewn earth.

And Derek wakes gasping for air, covered in real sweat and real semen, feeling real tears stinging at his eyes as he pants breathily in the coolness of the dark, empty house.

He’s a lot of things, but he will not become a rapist. He won’t let himself get that far. 

He can’t.

But it’s harder than it sounds. Because Stiles comes back after that last meeting, now that he knows Derek won’t ignore him. He comes back nearly every day in the afternoons, book-bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, bright smile on his face as he barges in through the front door unannounced.

He doesn’t bring up Peter again, and neither does Derek. Apparently all Stiles really needed was to voice his concerns and have someone acknowledge them, have someone care. So they don’t talk about it anymore. 

Instead they talk about...seemingly everything else. Stiles tells him about school and lacrosse and his home life, and Derek pretends not to listen, making occasional grunts of affirmation. When he’s feeling especially bold, Stiles probes for information about the pack, and Derek grudgingly relays whatever he feels comfortable with sharing.

“Not to be ‘that guy,’” Stiles starts one day as Derek’s painting one of bathroom walls, and Derek groans preemptively. “Not to be ‘that guy,’ but you really need to do something about Jackson, man. He’s acting totally bonkers at school, and people are starting to notice.”

“What do you mean by ‘notice?’” Derek asks dangerously and Stiles waves him off.

“Relax, no one’s caught on to the werewolf stuff. I just mean that they’ve noticed he’s acting a little more...er, erratic? I guess that would be the word for it.”

“Erratic,” Derek repeats, dipping the brush back into the paint bucket.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, blowing dust off a piece of sandpaper as he scrapes the baseboards beneath Derek’s ladder. “More so than usual, I should say.”

“Fucking great,” Derek grumbles. “That little shit couldn’t be subtle if his life depended on it. It’s been a nightmare trying to get him to submit to me.”

Stiles waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe you need a fresher seduction technique, buddy,” he teases. Derek glares at him and Stiles coughs awkwardly, avoiding his gaze. “Anyway, just though I’d give you a heads up.”

Derek nods. “Thank you,” he says. And means it.

Scott comes up in conversation every now and then, and Derek becomes increasingly aware that it’s unlikely Scott will ever come around to forgiving him. Definitely not anytime soon.

“He and Allison are still going strong,” Stiles tells him as they’re walking through the woods on a cloudy day, thunder rumbling off somewhere in the distance. “Whatever that means. I still get the feeling her parents don’t like him that much. Or me. But they haven’t stopped him from seeing her, and it doesn’t seem like they’re planning to kill either of us sometime soon, so I guess that’s something.”

“How’s he handling everything else?” Derek asks, hands stuffed in his side pockets, keeping his eyes focused firmly ahead instead of lingering on Stiles’ face. “The werewolf stuff?”

Stiles shrugs nonchalantly. “As well as you could expect. Which is to say, not too bad. But not too good either. He’s still pissed at you, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Derek say sharply. “I mean what I said.”

“Okay, okay.” Stiles holds his palms up in surrender. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Mr. Sour-wolf. He hasn’t killed anybody, alright? He’s doing okay.”

Derek hesitates, then asks the question that’s been on his mind for the past several days. “Do you understand? Even if he doesn’t?”

Stiles frowns. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“Why I did it. Why I had to kill Peter. Do you understand?”

Stiles face softens and, tentatively, he reaches out to pat Derek on the shoulder. “Yeah. I understand.”

And they leave it at that.

Derek knows it’s a bad idea to keep seeing each other like this. It’s innocent enough now, casual enough to be friendly instead of sinister. But it’s getting to the point where he finds his heart beating a little faster an hour before Stiles is scheduled to come by each day. It’s getting to the point where every time that door opens and Stiles’ bright, open face beams in at him, he’s nearly overpowered by the urge to grab him by the throat and fuck him into the wall.

He thinks maybe he needs to up the ante on venting his frustration. He thinks of burning something down, but that hits a little to close to home. He thinks of ripping something to pieces, and actually _does_ one night after Stiles comes over to play Scrabble. (“It’s a fun game!” he’d replied cheerfully to Derek’s skeptical expression. “Give it a chance.”) It’s a deer, which Derek recognizes only after his wolf has been appeased and he’s standing naked and bloody in the middle of the forest, flesh and bodily fluids dripping from his shining teeth and down the front of his chest. The beast’s entrails are hanging out of the hole in its side, its face contorted into a frozen expression of pain and horror, tongue hanging out, glassy eyes bulging wildly. Derek walks down to the river and bathes himself clean.

He thinks maybe of beating the shit out of something. Or someone. Maybe Stiles. Maybe he can beat him to a pulp, tear gashes across his face and rip the hair from his scalp until he’s not beautiful anymore. Until he’s safe from Derek’s lust.

Obviously, he doesn’t follow through with that plan, but he does find a suitable punching bag one night in the grocery store parking lot. 

There’s a guy in a ski mask hiding behind a car, waiting for an old lady to walk by with her shopping cart, and Derek slips in behind him undetected and bashes his face against the side mirror, shattering it to pieces. The little lady shrieks bloody murder, hobbling away as fast as her cane will allow, cart drifting away, forgotten. The man cries out in pain and falls backwards to the ground, trembling hands hovering over his face, splinters of glass sticking out of the mask, blood pooling around the eyeholes. Derek stands and kicks him in the ribcage until he hears the bones crack, then lets his wolf take hold and runs off to the forest, howling loud at the glowing moon as he pads along the riverbank.

People say that there’s no real measure to test the difference between love and attraction. They say it’s just something you “know,” something instinctual.

They also say that when you fall truly, deeply in love for the first time, it hits you like a bolt of lightning. It’s a defining moment. If nothing else, that’s what Derek’s been told. He’s sure he’s heard that somewhere.

But it’s bullshit. That part of it, at least. Because there isn’t any sort of revelation. He’s just sitting on the bathroom floor with a washcloth, rubbing dried blood off the toe of his shoe when it just sort of...occurs to him.

_Huh_ , he thinks. _I’m in love with the kid. Fucking brilliant._

***

Sheriff Stilinski is a sharp man, so it really was only a matter of time before he caught on.

“You’ve been going out a lot in the afternoons the past couple of weeks,” he says as a greeting when Stiles comes down for breakfast.

Stiles cocks an eyebrow at him sleepily, reaching into the refrigerator for orange juice. “Morning to you too, Dad.”

“Who’ve you been spending time with?” He’s probably going for curious rather than interrogative, but Stiles knows him well enough to recognize when he’s being questioned. Besides, the fact that his father is wearing his uniform doesn’t really help.

“Lydia,” he says unthinkingly, immediately wanting to kick himself in the foot. “I’ve been visiting her in the hospital.”

His father nods calmly. “Went to see her yesterday?”

Stiles thinks for a minute, then nods back. “Yep. Right after school.”

“Hmmm. That’s interesting. I actually went to check in with her doctors yesterday, and I don’t remember seeing you there.” Stiles sighs, rubbing the back of his head ruefully. The sheriff sets down his newspaper, folding his arms carefully. “Want to tell me the truth, son?”

Stiles figures honesty is the best policy. He doesn’t really have anything to hide. “Derek Hale,” he says, hoping to come across casually. “We’ve been hanging out some recently.” His dad raises his own eyebrow. “Okay, we’ve been hanging out a lot recently.”

“Derek Hale,” the sheriff says wearily, rubbing his forehead as if to say _why me?_ “The man you thought was a murderer?”

“I told you I was wrong about that,” Stiles frowns, pointing a finger accusingly. “He’s actually a good guy. It was just a big misunderstanding. I didn’t have the facts straight.”

The sheriff doesn’t say anything for a minute, just looks out the window contemplatively. Hesitantly, Stiles finishes pouring his orange juice and swallows it back in a few loud gulps.

“I’ve got to go, Dad,” he says, gesturing at the door. “School.”

His father nods. “Come home after,” he says neutrally, tonelessly. “I don’t night shift today, so I thought we could hang out. Just the two of us.”

Stiles swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

When he pulls up to the school in his Jeep, he sends Derek a quick text before class.

_My Dad knows about us._

It’s not until lunch that it hits him how presumptuous that sounds, and he hastily sends another message.

_About us hanging out, I mean. I won’t be able to stop by today, but I’ll see you tomorrow._

He checks his phone periodically, but Derek doesn’t text him back until the end of day, and it’s brief:

_Ok._

***

He can feel them all, can feel their life strands thrumming in tune at the corners of his mind. Can feel Jackson’s rage, his fear, his instability. Can hear the soft, vegetative heartbeat of Lydia’s shell; the beep of the monitor. Can smell the sex as Scott ruts up against Allison somewhere on the other side of town.

Can taste, can practically _taste_ , Stiles’ sweat as he tries to keep up with the team on the lacrosse field.

He’s aware of them all, but it’s Stiles who constantly thrusts his way into the forefront of Derek’s thoughts. And it’s fucking killing him. 

He runs into Chris Argent at the supermarket, and there’s a long, uneasy pause as they gaze into each other’s eyes, shopping carts held in front of them as if they were shields. Or weapons.

Mr. Argent smiles and Derek represses a shudder. The man could creep anybody out.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he says, voice dripping with false politeness. “You helped saved my daughter’s life, in a way.”

“I suppose I should thank you, too,” Derek responds sarcastically. “For not killing me for those murders you were so sure I committed.”

A couple of passerby glance at them uncomfortably and hurry along about their business. Mr. Argent’s eyes flash around to make sure no one’s listening in, before treating Derek to a condescending smile. “Are we going to have any trouble from you?” he says, tone sickeningly sweet. “I would hate to have to end our truce over something trivial.”

“No trouble here,” Derek says coldly, hands gripping the handlebar of his cart tighter.

“Good. That’s good.” Mr. Argent pushes past him, pausing for a moment to add, “I assume you can say the same for your...underling? Jackson Whittemore? You are his Alpha, after all, so anything he may be responsible for is also _your_ responsibility. Understand?” He walks off without waiting for an answer.

Derek drives over to the school later, ignoring his wolf’s instincts to seek out Stiles, and corners Jackson in the parking lot.

“You haven’t done anything stupid lately, have you?” he snarls, grabbing Jackson by the throat and slamming him against his car.

Jackson slaps his hand away, eyes blazing. “No!” he hisses vehemently, spittle flying from his mouth. “I haven’t done shit! Give me some fucking space!”

Derek has to close his eyes for a moment to quell the urge to punch the kid’s face in. “I have been giving you your space,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’ve been generous to you; something you haven’t earned even slightly. I didn’t have to do that. I’m your Alpha, and you need to start listening to me, asshole.”

Jackson sneers at him, and _fuck_ , Derek really might beat the everliving shit out of him. “Aren’t respect and authority supposed to be earned?” he says, poking Derek in the chest. “Last I recall, all you did was give me the bite. That hardly merits a lifetime of servitude. What gives you the right to be in charge?”

“It’s not about being in charge, you little fuck,” Derek spits, eyes flashing red. “It’s about leadership. We’re dangerous animals, and we need organization to stay strong and alive and to keep ourselves out of trouble. The every-man-for-himself method might fly elsewhere, but it’s not going to work with me, so you’d better get used to it.”

Jackson snorts, climbing into his car and slamming the door shut. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you around, Derek.” And then he’d gone, speeding off down the road.

Derek runs a hand through his hair, calming himself down. “Fuck,” he mutters.

***

Stiles actually does go to visit Lydia, for the first time since her hospitalization. The doctors aren’t sure what’s wrong with her and can’t come up with a valid estimate of when she’ll wake up.

Scott and Allison come as well, and the three of them congregate together in comfortable silence, listening to the intonation of the heart monitor as they sit at her bedside.

After a little while, Scott clears his throat and Stiles glances up, jerking himself out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, man?”

Scott looks at Allison, a little nervously, and she grips his hand encouragingly. “We’re going on a trip this weekend,” he starts carefully. “Allison and I. And her parents. We think...” He drifts off, and Allison cuts in.

“My parents think they’ve found a possible cure,” she says bluntly. “So we’re going to see if we can fix Scott.”

Something about that phrasing rubs Stiles the wrong way, and before can think about it, he’s blurting out, “There’s nothing to fix.”

“Stiles,” Scott sighs, rubbing his face tiredly. And Stiles feels his temper flare up unexpectedly.

“No, I’m serious. It’s your body and your life, and if you don’t want this, then by all means, go make a change. But stop talking about it like it’s a disease. Like it makes you less human.”

Allison looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Stiles,” she says softly, like she’s trying to explain something simple to a three-year-old, “it _does_ make you less human. By definition.”

“You know what I meant,” Stiles says, glaring at her. He looks back at Scott. “It doesn’t make you less capable of being moral, or less of a man, or whatever bullshit she and her psycho parents have been telling you. You don’t have to be ashamed of who you are just because other people are.”

“But it’s _not_ who I am,” Scott replies quietly. “I don’t want it to be. This isn’t something I asked for, and it’s not something I want to deal with for the rest of my life. And if there’s a chance, however small and unlikely it may be, for me to get back to the way I was...then I’m going to take it. Okay?”

Stiles nods jerkily, turning back to Lydia’s prone form.

“We thought you’d be happy for him,” Allison says, and Stiles kind of wants to smack her. “This isn’t even about you, really. So why are you taking it so personally?”

He’s not entirely okay with it, and it’s not something he ever thought he’d have to be prepared for, but Stiles knows exactly why it’s personal. He’s starting to think that he’s known all along, as much as he wished he could deny it.

“I have to go,” he says abruptly, standing and walking out without another word.

***

“We should talk, Derek.”

That’s the Sheriff’s opener, in lieu of a greeting, when Derek bumps into him at the gas station.

Derek nods resignedly, yanking the nozzle out of the side of his car and putting the pump back in place.

“What about, sir,” he says, even though he already knows. It’s been coming for a while now.

“You’ve been spending quite a lot of time with my son, I hear.” 

It’s not a question. It feels more like a challenge of sorts.

“You hear correctly, sir.” He can’t look the man in the eye.

The sheriff bites his lip, hands on his hips, and Derek can’t help but notice the gun at his side. He wonders if Stilinski is just itching to pull it on him.

“You’re a bit old for him, you know.”

Derek feels it like a jolt, and he actually has to grip the side of his car to resist the urge to flee. He hadn’t expected the sheriff to be _that_ blunt about it.

“I...”

Stilinski holds up his hand, making the words die in Derek’s throat. “That’s not a condemnation, it’s just an observation.” He sighs deeply, scratching at his brow. “I know things like this are...more complicated than people like to make it out to be. I was young once. I haven’t forgotten how it feels to be in love.”

Derek _does_ look up now, and the surprise must be evident on his face because the sheriff smiles at him wistfully.

“Sir -”

“Let me finish, please.” Derek shuts up. “Stiles and I haven’t really talked about it. He probably doesn’t know that I know. But I know him well enough to know how he feels about you. A father can tell.” He fixes Derek with a hard look. “I love my son. Do you understand? I will do anything, _anything_ to protect him. And if you hurt him, there’s nothing in this world that will keep you safe from me.”

Derek believes him. He bobs his head in agreement. “Y-yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

Stilinski peruses him briefly, then, apparently satisfied with what he sees, nods once. “I’m not going to stop you from seeing each other,” he says, and Derek’s not sure whether the begrudging tone he hears is in his imagination or not. “Stiles only listens to me half of the time anyway, and even less than that about things that really matter to him. I’m not going to risk losing his trust by cutting this thing off without giving you a chance.” He pokes a judgmental finger in Derek’s direction. “But I’m serious, Hale. If he so much as _hints_ that you touched him in a way he didn’t like, I’m coming after you. Got it?”

Derek nods enthusiastically. “Crystal clear.”

The sheriff turns on his heel, stepping back inside his car. “Good.”

Derek watches him drive away, dumbfounded. He’s not entirely sure what just happened, but he thinks it might be...good?

***

Stiles runs across him on the way to Derek’s house, sitting on the railing by the side of the road with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking and body wracked with sobs.

He pulls the Jeep over to the side, and, after just a moment’s hesitation, gets out to join Jackson.

They sit in silence. Jackson doesn’t acknowledge his presence, but he doesn’t tell him to beat it either. Stiles doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t put arm around his shoulder, but he doesn’t leave. They just sit there together, and somehow, weirdly, Stiles feels like they’re more connected than they’ve ever been.

When Jackson finally stops crying, Stiles asks, “Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, but where else can he start?

“What do you think?” Jackson fires back, but without any heat behind it. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know what I thought it was going to be like,” he whispers. “I can’t even remember what it was that I wanted. I just wanted to be special or something. I wanted to belong to something, you know?” He sniffles, and Stiles would offer him a tissue if he had it. Jackson chuckles bitterly. “And look at me now. I’m a God damn mess. I suck at using my powers, and I’m stuck like this forever. I’m stuck being Derek’s slave.”

Stiles frowns. “It’s not like that,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s not like Peter. He doesn’t want to control you.” Hesitantly, he puts a hand on the back of Jackson’s neck, comforting and casually affectionate. “If he’s gonna give you orders, it will be for your own good. For everybody’s good. He’s just trying to keep us all alive.”

Jackson looks at him doubtfully, but his eyes look less misty, and at least he’s listening.

“And you will belong,” Stiles adds. “You _do_ belong. You’re just not used to feeling like you belong, so you panicked when you got turned.” He pats Jackson on the back awkwardly. “He doesn’t want to control you. I promise.

Jackson looks down at his hands. “He’s not going to be very happy with me,” he mumbles. 

“No,” Stiles agrees, “Probably not. But he’ll get over it. You’re pack now.”

And Jackson’s eyes light up at that. He doesn’t voice his gratitude, but Stiles can sense it nonetheless.

***

Derek feels his heart pounding in his chest as Stiles pulls up around front. He steps out on the porch to meet him, and Stiles looks momentarily surprised before his face settles into something a little more inscrutable.

“We should talk, Derek.”

He sounds so much like his father, Derek can’t help but chuckle a little. He gestures towards the door. “Come in.”

They go to the couch and sit in the cold, breath coming out as smoke even within the safety of the house. The night is quiet and they share in the darkness, unspeaking, each waiting for the other to make the first play.

“I can smell Jackson on you,” Derek says suddenly.

Stiles starts, then relaxes, nodding absently. “Met up with him on the way here. I think he’s finally realized how much of a pain in the ass he’s been.”

“Really?” Derek’s a little surprised, but the sense of relief is quick to follow. “That’s good. How’d you knock some sense into him?”

“What makes you think it was my doing?” Stiles inquires. He grins when Derek gives him a skeptical look. “Alright, so I might have had something to do with it. But don’t give me too much credit. He was just looking for what everybody wants. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

Derek frowns. “And what’s that?”

“Love,” Stiles replies easily. “Family. Belonging. The classics.”

There’s another pause, and it stretches longer this time.

Stiles clears his throat. “Scott thinks Mr. Argent knows how to ‘cure’ him.” 

He puts “cure” in air quotes.

Derek nods without feeling. He doesn’t really have anything to say to that. “If that’s what he wants.”

Stiles hums in concurrence. “If you ask me, the whole thing’s bullshit. Probably just some fucked up scheme to keep him in line. Or something. I dunno. Either way, I don’t believe it.”

“It’s his choice,” Derek says softly. “It should have been to begin with.” He turns his body so he’s facing Stiles directly. He feels Stiles stiffen beside him, foot tapping nervously.

“I ran into Argent the other day,” he says, eyes drifting over Stiles’ silhouette. “He said we wouldn’t have any problems so long as we don’t hurt anyone.”

Stiles snorts disbelievingly. “I can’t help but suspect that his definition of ‘hurting anyone’ might be a bit stricter than ours.”

Derek shrugs. “We’ll deal with that when we have to. For now, we should think about rebuilding.”

Stiles turns to face him, bright eyes flickering down to stare at Derek’s mouth. “Yeah?” he murmurs softly.

Derek nods. “Yeah. We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to make this pack strong. We’re going to need to recruit more people. Especially if we don’t have Scott.”

Stiles grunts, flapping a hand dismissively. “He’ll come around. The cure’s bullshit. He’ll come back to us. Back to you.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

They stare at each other, sitting dangerously close together on the couch in the dark.

“I also ran into your father today?” Derek says, and Stiles’ eyes widen in shock.

“You did? What did you talk a-” He cuts off as it hits him. “Oh.” He closes his eyes briefly. “Oh.”

Feeling emboldened, Derek reaches out and puts his hand on Stiles’ knee. Stiles gasps quietly, eyes opening wide.

“I should have known he knew,” Stiles whispers, shifting closer, covering Derek’s hand with his own. “I can never hide stuff from him as well as I think I can.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, annoyed with himself for the way his voice shakes.

Stiles ignores him, looking at him adoringly. “I bet he figured it out before _I_ did. I bet I was the last one to guess.”

“Shut up,” Derek repeats, snaking his arms around Stiles’ back, pulling him in closer.

Stiles reaches up and touches his cheek gently. “I bet you were the first,” he whispers. “I bet you knew all along.”

Derek closes the gap and finally shuts him up.

***

There are going to be difficulties. It won’t be easy, age thing aside.

But it feels right. It feels good.

It feels like the beginning of something, instead of the end.


End file.
